


A Little Present

by Persiflager



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Consent Issues, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without taking his tiny, gleaming eyes off Marwood, Monty reaches into his dressing-gown pocket and pulls out a couple of crisp bank notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peevee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/gifts).



As Marwood backs up against the cold, wrought-iron headboard, the blankets clutched up to his chin like a nervous Victorian maiden, he finds himself nostalgic for the time when all he had to fear in the night was a murderous, knife-wielding poacher.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he says again, his mouth fixed in an aching, lunatic grin, “but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. And I really do need to go to sleep.”

Monty advances inexorably, his bulk making the bedstead creak, looming large in the meagre light cast by the solitary candle. “My dear boy,” he croons, low and compelling. “There’s no need to hide yourself from me. I just want to help you.”

“Oh, there’s really no need.”

“I beg to differ.” Without taking his tiny, gleaming eyes off Marwood, Monty reaches into his dressing-gown pocket and pulls out a couple of crisp bank notes. “A little present,” he murmurs, reaching slowly past Marwood to place them on the bedside table. “To keep you out of temptation for a while. Although, alas, I fear the same cannot be said for me.” He noses at Marwood’s jaw. His cologne is sickly-sweet, mingling unpleasantly with the metallic tang of hair cream. The further forward he leans, the more his dressing-gown - oh god - falls open.

Marwood twists away and finds his gaze landing on the - fifty-pound notes? Jesus, that’s rent for a month. He feels frozen, nailed to the mattress like the hare on the door, and so very tired. Maybe Withnail and Monty are right. Maybe this is who he is. Certainly being Marwood, the homosexual of negotiable virtue, can’t be any worse than being Marwood, the terrified and soon-to-be-buggered.

 _This would make great material for a story_ , he thinks.  
And: _My arse has already been sold - might as well see some of the proceeds._  
And: _I wonder if this is what it feels like to go mad?_

“Ok.”

Monty groans out loud and strokes tenderly down the side of Marwood’s face. “Oh, my plum, my peach, my forbidden fruit. We’re going to sin so marvellously, you and I.”

Marwood swallows. “Monty, wait, I-”

“No more waiting!” Monty sits back suddenly, grabs Marwood firmly by one thigh and the opposite shoulder, and man-handles him roughly over onto his front with a speed and strength surprising in one so corpulent. 

Marwood finds himself flat on the mattress, face buried in the pillow, Monty’s now-naked body pressing heavily along his back. “Oh god.”

“God,” breathes Monty into his ear, “has nothing to do with it.” His fat fingers dig under Marwood’s waistband before yanking his pants down. They disappear for one rustling moment before sliding greasily between Marwood’s buttocks. At the first touch to his arsehole Marwood panics instinctively, bucking and wriggling in a desperate, frantic attempt to get free.

“Settle down,” says Monty chidingly, gripping Marwood’s hip tightly as he buggers him with the fingers of the other hand. “There’s no need to be coy with me, my dear. I know what you need.”

Marwood laughs hysterically, gasping into the pillow. “I really don’t think you do.”

“Ssh, ssh.” Monty’s fingers go away and for one blessed, dizzying moment Marwood thinks it’s all over, but then his prick nudges between Marwood’s legs and without so much as a by-your-leave he thrusts in.

 _I thought it would hurt more_ is Marwood’s first, confused thought. He’s not aware of any pain, or at least any physical discomfort is dwarfed by the overwhelming sense of wrongness. It reminds him of his first cigarette - the thrill of transgression, feeling a bit sick, and general bafflement that anyone would want to do this for fun.

Then Monty hauls his hips back and stars go off behind his eyelids.

“Oh,” he says softly.

Monty thrusts deep. “Didn’t I tell you, my darling, wicked boy? This is what it can be like with someone who truly cares for you. It doesn’t have to be - _oh_ \- nasty and sordid.”

Closing his eyes, Marwood takes a deep breath and grinds back onto Monty’s prick, biting his lip at the shameful, deep-down pleasure of it. “Get on with it, you sad bastard.”

Monty does, with gusto. He fucks Marwood energetically, grunting and groaning in delight, sweating all over his back and murmuring foul nothings in his ear. Marwood resists for a few minutes before finally squirming one hand under himself and taking hold of his cock.

“Yes, that’s it, that’s it,” gasps Monty, his thighs thudding into Marwood’s with depressing regularity. “Touch yourself for me, oh my angel, my fallen angel.” 

It’s horribly good. Marwood barely has to squeeze himself before he’s coming, moaning into the spit-sodden pillow as ecstasy shudders through him. Above him, Monty lets out a long, undignified bellow and stills.

“Oh my.”

Marwood can scarcely breathe, pinned down as he is under Monty’s weight.

With a sigh, Monty pulls out. The bed dips as he sits up, shrugging his dressing-gown back on with a silky whisper. “Goodnight,” he says, giving Marwood’s shoulder a friendly pat. “I do hope you will forgive me for my weakness. As I have already forgiven you.”

Marwood manages a nod.

“Don’t worry, I shan’t tell him.” And Monty tip-toes out of the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

For a moment, Marwood can’t think who Monty’s talking about, and then he remembers - Withnail, that fucking _bastard_ Withnail who got him into this mess in the first place. And not for the first time, though Marwood had always thought Withnail would draw the line somewhere before actual prostitution. Then again, he’d thought he would as well. 

Everyone’s different on holiday.


End file.
